It’s the perfect sort of morning. Quiet. Light. We eat breakfast: yogurt drizzled with pureed strawberries, leftover from our frozen farmer’s market stash, topped with crunchy homemade granola. We hop like kangaroos across our tiny backyard. We feed the dog. We nurse. We water our lime tree and our herb garden. We read library books. We run a load of laundry. We walk to the neighborhood bookstore to buy a birthday gift and catch the end of story time. Lily naps tucked inside the Ergo. We sing silly made up songs. We feed the ducks. We recite poetry. We tell stories of princesses and dragons and far-away castles. We eat peanut butter sandwiches on our way home underneath the shade of a tree. We sing Skinny Marinky Dinky Dink. We fly like butterflies and slither like snakes across the grass in the park. We color and glue and cut.
We cuddle at naptime, all three of us stretched out in bed. Snuggling. Nursing. Reading story after story. Singing “Daisy” and “Sunshine.” I think of the papers to grade, the essays to edit, the laundry to fold, but instead, I hold my girls just a little bit tighter, sighing deeply as I drift off to sleep.
The perfect sort of morning is exhausting.